


The Provenance of Griffin-Blakes

by enoughtotemptme



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cop!Raven, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Meetings, Minor Nathan Miller/Monty Green, Minor Raven Reyes/Kyle Wick, artist!Clarke, cop!bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3684807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughtotemptme/pseuds/enoughtotemptme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke meets up with Raven and her new partner for drinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Provenance of Griffin-Blakes

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written in response to the following tumblr prompt. 
> 
> Anonymous asked: “43. Bellarke: falling in love with their best friend's partner (like police partner maybe)” 
> 
> But then it turned into a super long monster that wasn't quite right for the prompt. So I am posting it on its own instead––hope you enjoy! ;)

When Raven is assigned a new partner after the fiasco with Emerson, Clarke’s just grateful she’s got someone more likely to watch her back than Carl ever did. After a long bout of intense physical therapy, Raven’s more than ready to get off desk duty, and her new partner sounds like the perfect guy to make sure she doesn’t get hurt again.

After their first day on the job together, Raven comes home to the apartment she and Clarke share and gives her the details over fettuccine alfredo. Bellamy Blake is five years older than the both of them, has an exemplary closure rate from his old precinct, and has a lethal sense of humor. He can match Raven shot for shot at the range––no easy feat––and has a rocking body to go with the rest of the package.

Clarke snorts. “Please don’t tell me you’re into him,” she says. “That has _bad romance novel_ written all over it.”

Raven rolls her eyes and replies around a mouthful of pasta. “Nah. I mean, objectively, he’s incredibly bangable, but it’d probably end up an awkward one time thing that we’d _never_ talk about.”

“Good,” Clarke says, and takes a sip of her wine. “Besides, I haven’t forgotten about the crime scene tech who visited you in the hospital. You both had _major_ eyes for each other.”

“Wick’s just––we’re not––”

Clarke starts to laugh at Raven’s flustered reaction, and Raven growls and throws a hunk of garlic bread at Clarke.

“Shut up,” she says sullenly.

* * *

The next Friday, Clarke’s covered in paint when Raven texts her.

_Closed 1st case w/ new partner, meet up with the usual group at Dropship to celebrate in an hour?_

Clarke bites her lip, looks from her phone to the nearly-finished painting on the easel in front of her. It’s a commission for the hospital’s new pediatrics wing, and she wants it to be just right. But it _is_ nearly done, and it’s been a long time since she’s been able to hang out Raven’s coworkers. Monty and Jasper from the morgue are the silliest, sweetest pair of guys she’s ever met, and Harper and Miller always crack her up with their deadpan wit.

(And she’s got a bet going with Raven about when Monty and Miller finally get together; she wants to assess the situation for any changes.)

So she texts back a quick winky face and thumbs up, and sets a timer on her phone so she knows when she needs to stop and get in the shower.

It probably would have worked better if she’d remembered to change her default alert tone to something awful, like a siren blaring. But she’s in the zone, and when the phone starts chiming with Maroon 5′s _Feelings_ , she dances in place and keeps painting for a good fifteen minutes before she actually realizes that the song is on repeat and she’s singing along to her alarm.

Thankfully, the painting’s essentially finished, but Clarke has zero time to shower now. She hurriedly takes care of her brushes and palette, drags a cloth over her skin so at least she won’t be smearing any wet paint on anything, and throws on a simple spaghetti-strapped sundress. It’s the middle of summer, and far too hot for her usual top and jeans, especially if she’s going to be drinking tonight. Thinking again of the heat, she quickly twists her hair into a coronet braid.

She hightails it the couple of blocks from the apartment to The Dropship, and gets there only a couple minutes late.

“Clarke! Over here!” Raven waves at her from a booth in the corner of the bar. The usual suspects greet her as she slides in next to Raven, but that’s it.

“Where’s your partner?” Clarke asks. “Isn’t he celebrating?”

“He lost rock-paper-scissors,” Raven says. “So he has to finish up the case paperwork before he meets us. What’s your deal? You look like you fought a war with your tubes of paint and lost.”

It’s true; Clarke’s still got streaks of dried paint all up and down her limbs, blues and pinks and greens and oranges.

“This is how I accessorize now,” she says. “Easier than digging around in my jewelry box.”

Raven rolls her eyes and pushes a drink over to Clarke.

“You got one of those for me?” she hears as she takes a sip, and when she glances up she nearly chokes on her drink.

Raven was _not_ exaggerating when she described Bellamy Blake with the words _rocking body_ and _incredibly bangable._ He’s changed out of the standard uniform into jeans and a plaid button-down; the top buttons are undone and the sleeves are rolled up to compensate for the warm temperature.

“’Bout time you showed up, Blake,” Raven says. “Clarke, move over so he can sit.”

Clarke belatedly shifts over so that Bellamy can fold himself into the booth next to her. With seven of them sitting at the table, it’s more than cozy, and his thigh is pressed up against hers.

“Hey,” he says to her, and holds out a hand. “I know all these delinquents, but you’re new.”

Clarke has to twist around awkwardly to be able to reach his hand with hers.

“I’m Clarke,” she says. “Raven’s keeper.”

He laughs. “Nice to finally meet you.” His hand is warm and his grip is firm, which Clarke likes; she’s always hated those limp-dead-fish handshakes.

“We didn’t order for you,” Monty says from his spot between Jasper and Miller. Clarke and Bellamy let go of each other’s hand a beat too slow. “We didn’t know what you like to drink.”

Bellamy shrugs. “I’m not picky. Whatever’s on tap is fine.”

“Hey, man!” Jasper exclaims then, and they all turn to see a scruffy blond man standing next to their table. One hand is shoved in his pocket and he waves nervously with a grin.

“Wick? What are you doing here?” Raven asks, surprise coloring her voice.

Wick rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, well–”

“I invited him,” Bellamy says. “We hang sometimes.”

Clarke’s struck with an idea, and she taps Bellamy’s arm, hoping he’ll play along.

“It’s so great to see you again, Kyle,” she says. “And under much better circumstances.”

“You too, Clarke,” he replies.

“Bellamy and I were just going to get the next round. What do you want to drink?” she asks him, and ignores the way Bellamy’s glancing at her with a raised brow.

“Uh, any beer is fine,” Wick says, and Clarke beams at him.

“Great!” she says, and shoves at Bellamy until he gets the hint and stands. She takes the hand he offers to her, ignores the tingles that spread throughout her as he hauls her effortlessly out of the booth, and says, “Here, go ahead and take our spot while we’re at the bar.”

He smiles gratefully at her and slips in next to Raven, who’s watching Clarke with narrowed eyes as her cheeks grow pink.

Clarke hides her smile as she uses the hand Bellamy had offered her to tow him away from the booth and toward the bar.

“Don’t we need to find out what the others want?” Bellamy asks.

“Nope,” Clarke says. “It’s just that you’re the new guy. Raven drinks palomas, Monty and Jasper drink this grossly strong housemade liquor, Harper and Miller are both pale ale kind of people.”

“What about you?” he asks curiously as they lean against the bar and wait for the bartender to notice them. It’s pretty busy––it’s Friday night, after all––and Clarke’s not expecting them to be served anytime soon.

“Coke and whatever,” she says. “Vodka makes me stuffy, and any amount of tequila makes me hungover, but rum or whiskey are both good.”

“Good to know,” he says.

“Why?” Clarke asks.

The smile he gives her is slow and sly and it does _things_ to Clarke’s insides. No one’s ever done _things_ to Clarke’s insides like this before, not with just a smile and just having met.

“Now I know what kind of drink to buy you,” he says.

“Oh,” Clarke replies faintly. To distract herself, she asks him, “Do you and Kyle really ‘hang sometimes’?”

He shrugs. “We ate lunch in the breakroom together once,” he says. “I mean, I like the guy, but I don’t know him very well yet. Mostly I just wanted to give the guy a break after seeing what a mess he is around Reyes.”

Clarke laughs a little. “Every day Raven has to see him, she comes home from work and complains about him for _hours._ ” When she sees the anxious look cross Bellamy’s face and the glance he directs back toward their group, she hastens to reassure him. “The good kind of complaining, Bellamy. The kind where she can’t get him off of her mind even though she pretends she wants to.”

He lets out a breath. “Oh, good. I thought I’d just fucked things up. I don’t need Reyes out for my blood.”

“Oh, she’ll probably try to kick your ass anyway for inviting him,” Clarke tells him. “But that’s pretty much the only way she knows how to show affection.”

The bartender finally shows up and takes their orders, and as he turns away to prepare them Clarke catches the appraising way Bellamy’s looking her up and down.

“What?” Clarke asks. “Do I have something on my face?”

He grins and shakes his head. “No, not on your face. On your neck, though, and your arms. And your legs.”

Clarke swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. “Oh. I was painting before I left.”

Bellamy reaches out and traces a finger down her arm from the strap of her dress to her wrist. “I like all the colors,” he says.

It’s impossible to keep from erupting in goosebumps, and she knows he notices when his eyes darken and he does this funny little thing with his tongue and lips.

“Thanks,” she says, licking her own lips.

“Here,” the bartender interrupts them, holding out a tray filled with their drinks.

Clarke doesn’t really trust herself not to rattle the tray and drop the whole thing, so she’s grateful when Bellamy grabs it instead.

* * *

The rest of the night is fun, if not relaxing. They’re even more cramped in the booth now that Wick’s there, and every time Bellamy talks or laughs or shifts at all, the denim of his jeans scrapes against her bared thigh. Thankfully she can and does blame her flush on the alcohol.

It’s late, but pleasantly cool outside when they finally settle their tab and head out. Jasper and Harper say their goodbyes and slip into a cab to share. Miller and Monty head off hand in hand, and Clarke grins victoriously at Raven, who rolls her eyes.

“Raven?” Wick says, his hand on her shoulder. Clarke watches as Raven’s posture softens a little at the touch, and hides her smile. “You want to go somewhere? “ he asks. “I know a late-night frozen yogurt place nearby that’s pretty good.”

“He’s good,” Clarke whispers to Bellamy, who’s standing next to her. “Raven can’t resist good fro-yo.”

“That sounds...nice,” Raven says. “But it’s late, and I don’t want Clarke walking home alone.”

Before Clarke can disagree, or poor Wick offers for Clarke to come along as the world’s most awkward third wheel, Bellamy speaks.

“I’ll walk her home,” Bellamy says. “It’s on my way, anyway.”

The look Wick directs toward them is hilariously grateful. For a split second, Clarke thinks she sees a victorious look cross Raven’s face, but it must be her imagination because then Raven’s expression is nervous, but excited.

“You sure?” Raven asks. “Clarke, that good with you?”

“Sure,” Clarke says. “I mean, I don’t need a bodyguard, but the company will be nice. Have fun.”

Raven nods, and the two turn and walk the other way. After a few steps, Wick hesitantly touches her hand with his, and Clarke can practically see Raven thinking about it. After a moment of consideration, just before they disappear out of view, their fingers tangle together, and Clarke sighs happily.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bellamy asks, and she smiles up at him.

“Just them,” Clarke gestures. “ _Finally_.”

A little breeze plays with the hem of her dress, and she shivers a little as the cool air eddies around her knees and thighs.

“You alright?” he says.

“Just a little chilly,” Clarke replies. “I should probably get going.”

He seems to hesitate for a moment, and then steps very close to her so he can wrap an arm around her shoulders.

“Better?” he asks. Clarke’s face feels warm again, but this time she’s not holding a glass of whiskey to blame it on.

“Yeah,” she says, and clears her throat. “Definitely warmer. Still not home, though.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said I was going to walk you home,” he tells her with a little frown. “It’s late.”

“Fine,” she says. “Lead the way.”

There’s a pause, and then he glances sheepishly at her from out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t know where you two live.”

“You said it was on your way!”  she exclaims.

“Well, that time I _was_ lying. Which way?”

Clarke sighs, then starts them off toward her apartment.

They talk lightly as they stroll, and when Clarke wraps her arm around his waist because it’s awkward to try to walk with it just dangling in between them, she takes a silly amount of pleasure in the way his breath hitches between words.

All too soon, they’re in front of her apartment, and Clarke reluctantly disentangles herself to unlock the door.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks abruptly, turning to face him as she pushes open the door. “We’ve got more beer, and some wine. I don’t think we’ve got any decaf, but I can make regular coffee, or there’s just plain water––”

She’s cut off by his grinning lips on hers, firm and gentle at first as she registers that he’s _kissing_ her. Then when she makes an appreciative little sound and pulls him closer, not caring that they’re standing in the middle of her doorway for any passerby to watch, he holds her face between his hands and kisses her hard, mouth slanting across hers and licking at her lips until she opens them, stroking her tongue with his until every movement of his against hers is accompanied by a throbbing between her legs.

Finally, she has to pull away to breathe, and he looks just as flustered as she feels, dark eyes hooded, mouth red and swollen and glistening.

“Is it a bad idea for me to ask you to come in?” she blurts out. He is, after all, her best friend’s new partner. Is there some cop rule that says close friends of partners are off-limits?

As if reading her thoughts, he shakes his head. “Please do,” he rasps out. “ _You’re_ not my partner.”

“Come in, then,” she commands, and drags him through the door. Once he’s through, she shuts and locks it because, well, her best friend’s a cop and she’s been conditioned to do these things. Once that’s taken care of, she drops her keys and her purse on the ground, kicks her sandals off, and pulls him back down to her. Bellamy wraps his arms around her, planting his palms on her back and dragging them down her spine until he has a firm hold on her ass. When his grip tightens, she squeals and hops up, wrapping her legs around his hips.

“Which––way?” he asks in between kisses, and she pants out directions to her bedroom. He nearly crashes them both into the doorjamb as he finally makes it into her room, but to be fair, Clarke had also decided right at that moment that she wanted to taste the curve of his neck.

“Thank god,” he mumbles when he sees her bed, and turns them so he can sit on the edge, Clarke straddling him. His jeans are scraping against the flesh of her inner thighs, and feeling it _there_ after a night of the fabric just teasing the outside edge of her legs has Clarke’s breathing quickening.

She grinds down on him, laughing as he curses into her mouth, and lets the rasp of his jeans and thick bulge of him through the denim get her closer than she ever thought it could. Then Bellamy’s hands shift from her ass to grab her thighs, and he lifts her up and back so she’s straddling him near his knees instead of his lap.

“Hey!” she pouts, and he catches her protruding lip between his teeth and tugs. Her dress has ridden up high on her thigh, and one of his hands traces the splatters of bright paint on her knee while the other goes to her back to hold her steady. She shivers when his fingernails scratch carefully over her skin and his mouth shifts to her jaw.

“Bellamy,” she sighs, and the hand on her knee slips higher, higher, until it’s slipping under the rucked-up skirt of her dress and over to her damp panties.

“Jesus, Clarke,” he says in a strangled tone, and she forces open the eyes she didn’t realize had closed. He’s staring down, but his eyes are on her legs rather than between them.

“What?” she asks, and then little tremors race up and down her spine because his fingers have started to stroke her through the lace.

“How much paint did you get on you?” he asks, fingers still stroking as he rakes her skin with his eyes. She realizes there are streaks of lavender high on her thigh, and just a tiny dot of blue is peeking out from under her dress.

“Um,” Clarke says, and has to close her eyes and bite her lip when Bellamy’s fingers press a little harder against her panties.

“ _Clarke_.”

“I–I only wear my underwear when I paint,” she stutters out, and then cries out when Bellamy’s fingers jerk against the fabric over her clit.

“Why?” he asks.

“Easier to wash myself than to wash a smock,” she manages, and moves her hands to dig into his shoulders. _“Bellamy_.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, and pulls his hand out from under her dress so he can roll them over onto the bed. He kisses her fiercely and then yanks her panties down her legs in one swift move; they end up hooked around one ankle and she kicks out her leg until they go flying across the room, making them both laugh. She pulls at his shoulders until he settles heavily atop of her, the hem of her dress way up above her bellybutton and trapped between them.

At this point, Clarke feels absolutely no shame as she wantonly spreads her legs wide to cradle him against her. She just wants him closer, closer, _closer._ He groans her name and rolls his hips against hers, and the shock of the denim against her bare flesh has her choking on a breath as her climax instantaneously bursts through her.

“Holy shit,” she can barely register Bellamy muttering, and then she feels his mouth, hot and wet, sucking at the skin just above her nipple. As her muscles feel less tingly and more liquid, and she comes back to herself, she realizes that Bellamy’s yanked her bra and her dress down so that her breasts are spilling out, and he’s carefully holding his hips away from hers, letting her come down without overstimulating her.

“This isn’t fair,” she says when she can speak. He glances up at her and licks her nipple into his mouth, making her breathe in sharply as he sucks hard enough to make his cheeks hollow. The pull of his mouth has a straight connection to her cunt, and Clarke squirms even as her body winds tighter again.

“Not _fair_ ,” she tries again, and lets go of his shoulders to palm his cock through his jeans. He jolts, and his teeth scrape against her breast, in turn making her fingers tighten around him.

“Take them off,” she says, “ _off_.”

He sucks hard against her nipple in response, then pulls his mouth away with an obscene sound. “Whatever you say, princess,” he says, and quickly stands up so he can undo the buttons of his fly. While he shoves the jeans down his legs along with his boxers, she finally wiggles all the way out of her dress, tossing it along with her bra in the direction her panties had flown earlier.

“Shirt, too,” she demands. “I’ll probably ruin it if you make me take it off you. And I can’t sew to save my life.”

“Are you always this bossy, princess?” he asks as he hurriedly unfastens his shirt until he can drop it to the ground.

“Yes,” she says, and he snickers even as he climbs on top of her and she wraps her arms around his back.

“Good,” he says. “I kind of like it.”

The insistent grind of his cock between her legs tells her he might more than _kind of_ like it. She cants her hips up so the tip of his cock catches against her entrance with the next roll of Bellamy’s hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, and Clarke nods frantically.

“Yes, fuck, _now_ ,” she says, and then she can’t say anything else because he thrusts into her in one hard stroke.

His pelvis is flush against hers, and Clarke pants as all of her attention zeroes in on him between her legs, seemingly impossibly deep in her cunt, filling her fully and perfectly.

“Holy shit,” she breathes, and Bellamy lets out a breathless chuckle and leans down to drop a kiss on her mouth.

“Back at you,” he says. One hand curls under her shoulder and the other reaches back to grab her thigh and hitch it even higher on his hip. He holds her in place and she can’t look away from his eyes on hers, pupils blown so wide she can’t tell where his iris begins, and then he does that _thing_ again, the one with his lips and his tongue, and rolls his hips slowly, firmly against hers.

Clarke bites her lip even as every little movement sets her on fire in the best way; every stroke of his cock within her, every brush of his pelvis against her clit, every clutch of his fingers against her thigh. She clenches unintentionally around him, and his eyes widen as his hips snap forward at a slightly different angle, and brushes against a spot that forces a high-pitched cry out of her mouth.

“Oh god, Bellamy, _there_ ,” she pleads, “there, _please._ ”

He doesn’t listen right away, instead soothing her with his mouth above her heart, on her pulse, under her jaw. Only when he reaches her lips does he move again, stroking until he hits the same angle that makes her see stars and has her making that sound again. When she whimpers loudly into his mouth, he lets out a little satisfied growl that sends a thrill racing up her spine, and then he’s fucking her hard into the mattress.

Clarke can only furrow her brow and hold on as each stroke winds her tighter and tighter, as her thighs tremble around him and in his hold, as her toes curl so hard, so _good_ that her feet almost start to cramp, as the friction between them grows so hot it feels like they’re going to ignite, and she barely has the presence of mind to be grateful Bellamy’s mouth is still muffling hers, because she’s making so much noise that her neighbors would otherwise surely complain.

But then she _has_ to pull her mouth away from his, because suddenly she can’t even make noise, can only pull in quick, unsatisfying breaths because she’s almost there, and then as Bellamy chokes out her name and thrusts hard into her one last time, she’s gone.

* * *

“This is awkward,” Raven announces the next morning when she walks out of her bedroom in her pajamas and discovers Clarke and Bellamy. They’re in the kitchen, laughing over their plates of eggs and toast about the paint that somehow got transferred to Bellamy’s neck and arms during the night. “If this is going to become a common occurrence around here, I’m moving out.”

But she grins at Clarke, mouthing _incredibly bangable_ when Bellamy’s not looking, and Clarke smiles back, near to bursting with joy as Bellamy’s hand finds hers and squeezes.

(Raven does move out in a couple months, but only because they need her room for the nursery.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am fluff trash. Let me know your thoughts! :D


End file.
